


After the Storm

by iwakehungryaftersoundsleep



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anger, Healing, Hurt, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 00:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11280078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwakehungryaftersoundsleep/pseuds/iwakehungryaftersoundsleep
Summary: ...that was a lot. I don't know, I've had Lorde's Melodrama on repeat and am feeling very melodramatic? I promise it won't be this angry/angsty/fucked up forever. But maybe for a bit. :)





	After the Storm

Parts of the castle still smoldered. Little fires burned in pockets of rubble, despite the best efforts of Headmistress McGonagall and what was left of the elite of the Ministry. Harry had spent the summer moving stone and charming the castle back into some semblance of readiness, and, more or less, it was ready. There were still char marks on walls throughout the long, winding halls of Hogwarts and some passageways were still blocked, but all the windows had fresh glass, the staircases were finally moving normally again, and the bloodstains were gone.

The physical stains were, at least—Harry could remember the exact shape and splotch of each pool of blood, could remember the crumpled bodies of his classmates- the broken bones, the shattered glass, the way some of them looked as if they were just sleeping, and others had been reduced to little more than lumps of oozing flesh. Sometimes, in the corner of his eye, Harry still saw the bodies, as if superimposed over the new carpets donated by wizard families across England and the globe.

The people of England and beyond had come together to rebuild Hogwarts—a group of Americans who had been happy to watch the English wizards kill each other had come over with gifts and furniture and new books and spent the summer camping out with the rest of them on the Hogwarts grounds. There were Italians. There were Poles. They all came over to talk about love and unity and try to break the curses and scrub out the dark magic that permeated the castle. Their hadn’t been any love or unity during the war, though, was there?

Harry hated them, hated most the supercilious Americans- isolationist half the time, superior the rest, they walked in and promised the aid that they had withheld when it was really needed, shaking their heads the entire time at the folly of war, at the _folly_ _of England_. He _hated_ them.

Harry hated a lot of things these days: the acrid smell of chemical smoke, the words “thank you,” the awed eyes that followed him everywhere he went. And Malfoy—that long, slim line of white skin and whiter hair, his robes still perfectly tailored and his mouth twisted up in a smirk. He walked—no, Harry thought—he sauntered through the castle as if he hadn’t helped destroy it. Harry’s jaw clenched.

As Harry watched, Malfoy cut his way through the buzzing crowd exiting the Welcome Feast with a calm ease, not seeming to notice the way the students drew out of his way, until he pulled up next to a cluster of first years who were whispering to each other anxiously. They didn’t seem to recognize Malfoy, and Harry guesed they were muggleborns. They stared about themselves, amazed, and Harry was for a minute jealous. To them, this was Hogwarts in all its glory. They didn’t see the spots where paint had hastily been splashed and the tapestry and paintings that had been replaced—they just saw a brilliant, massive castle, glittering with floating candles. They turned towards Malfoy and as Harry watched, he bent down towards them. All three First Years burst out laughing, their childish giggles echoing in the unusually quiet crowd bunched outside the Great Hall. Malfoy made some hand motion, as if doing a muggle magic trick, and a chocolate frog appeared on his hand. The littlest boy snatched it, and Malfoy patted him on the shoulder and moved on.

“What did you say to them?” Harry asked as Malfoy passed him, his voice cutting across the four feet between them sharply.

Malfoy pulled up short, a flicker of surprise rippling across his face. In a second, it was gone, and Malfoy’s face was calm and expressionless. “I’m sorry?”

“What did you say to them?” Harry said again, more aggressively this time.

Now, disbelief. Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up. “What, do you think I threatened them? And gave them my last chocolate frog to really make sure the fright lasted?”

Harry just narrowed his eyes. The silence stretched, and Malfoy looked away. “I told them a knock-knock joke. Do you want to hear it?”

Harry snorted, and Malfoy’s lips tightened. “Why did Draco Malfoy cross the road twice?”

“I don’t trust it,” Harry said, ignoring Malfoy’s words and waving his hand abstractly in Malfoy’s direction. “You.”

Malfoy’s face didn’t shift, as if he was carved out of marble. “Because he's a double crosser.”

A rush of anger swamped Harry’s thoughts, Malfoy’s face blurring into a montage of faces that Malfoy’s stupidity, Malfoy’s self-involvement had helped kill. And now, he was standing here, expecting Harry to believe that after seven years as a giant prat and then criminal, he had developed a taste for comedy. That what he had done was something he could joke about.

“I can’t believe they let you come back. You shouldn’t be here,” Harry said. “Where Remus…where Fred…you don’t deserve to walk these floors.”

Malfoy blanched slightly, and Harry’s hands shook with rage. It came out of nowhere, that rush of fury. It always did now, his own emotions surprising him. “They’re dead and _you’re_ alive? And I saved _you_? For you to make fucking jokes and act like all is forgiven?”

Malfoy looked at Harry, his eyes unreadable. “You are not the only one who feels that you might have made a mistake.”

“Do you want fucking pity, now?” Harry asked, incredulous. “What the fuck, Malfoy? Are you going to tell me I should have left you to die?”

“No,” Malfoy exclaimed angrily, his calm façade breached. “No, I…” he paused. “What do you want from me, Potter?” He sounded exhausted suddenly, as if this wasn’t the first time they’d spoken—as if he’d had the argument before. “What do you want?”

Harry couldn’t answer, breathing in rapid puffs, his heart flying. What did he want? He wanted Malfoy to pay. And he didn’t quite know what he meant by that, he didn’t know what type of payment he wanted, just that Malfoy was there, in front of him, a reminder of everything the Wizarding World refused to let Harry forget and he hadn’t suffered a bit.

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Harry said, low and quiet. He walked past him, Malfoy getting out of his way when Harry almost bumped him.

“Potter,” Malfoy’s voice rang out. Harry stopped. “Thank you.” The words echoed in the rapidly emptying entry hall, each syllable monotone and clipped, Malfoy staring straight ahead towards the doors as if to pretend he wasn’t speaking. “Thank you for saving my life.”

Harry kept walking.

 

           

Harry woke up gasping. It had been the Hufflepuffs this time, Sarah Bones and Justin Flinch Fletchly, people he barely remembered speaking to but who stared at him as if he had broken their hearts, who screamed until his head echoed with the sound and he was sure that was all their was to the world and then woke up, sweat-soaked and salted with tears, to an empty room.

Harry dashed his hand against his cheeks and noticed for the first time the blood pooling in his palms where his fingernails had dug red crescents into the skin. He swore. He wasn’t good enough at wandless magic or at using his left hand to heal the right one, which meant he’d have to ask Ginny. And she’d look concerned, and when he brushed her off her eyes would water, and then she’d look hard again. She’d been alternating between teary and frozen ever since Fred died, and yet sometimes she laughed or danced for a second or two. That made him furious too, the sound of her laugh, and he knew there was something wrong with that. Then the fury would turn to self-hate and he would wallow, and he hated himself for wallowing. So he tried to avoid Ginny, and then that made her teary and concerned again. And it was no longer clear what came first, the phoenix or the fire.

Harry crossed the room to the window and looked out over the lake. Someone had decided he and Hermione should have the Head Boy and Girl rooms, and Harry hadn’t protested- he’d learned that they would give him the medal or the flowers or the nice room regardless of what he did or said, and he knew better than to protest this—the dreams were loud and he didn’t want to bother anybody. Hermione was barely there to use hers, popping off to consult for the Ministry on various things or appear at the events Harry refused to go to, and trying to juggle her schoolwork on top. Harry knew she was doing it for him, and he knew he should step up to the plate but the plate just kept getting fuller and he just wanted to sleep.

And he couldn’t.

So he sat on the window bench and tried to doze. Eventually his eyelids fluttered open to greet the sun rising over the mountains. Harry stumbled into his uniform and charmed the circles under his eyes so people wouldn’t ask concerned questions.

He accosted Ginny on her way to breakfast and pulled her aside. “Can you do something for me and not ask questions?”

“Oh, Harry,” she said, biting her lip. “Yes, what?”

“I need you to heal this,” he said, holding out his hand. The little red crescents had faded slightly, but they still popped out against his palm. “I can’t do it myself.”

Ginny reached out for his hand, her brow furrowed. He could see by the way her lips had whitened that she was forcing herself to stay silent. Silence didn’t come easily to Ginny- she was the type of person who told you exactly what she was thinking the minute she thought it.

Her hand tensed slightly when she touched his, and after she healed it, she didn’t let go.

“Ginny,” Harry said, tense.

“No,” she shook her head, “I don’t want to talk about that. Just, are you okay?” she added quickly, “Physically? Magically? It’s like you’re…thrumming. I can feel the magic, as if it’s trapped.” She squeezed his hand again, her eyes wide. “Have you gone to Pom..the Healing Wing?”

“Since when is being magical in the Wizarding World a bad thing?”

Ginny said bluntly, “You feel like you are about to explode. And I have never sensed that before so I have no idea what it means. Harry, you’ve always been powerful but what is this?”

“I’m fine, Ginny,” Harry said flatly. He softened his voice, “Thank you,” he waved his hand around, “And I’m sorry I’ve been…I’m being…difficult.”

“You’re not,” Ginny said. She snorted slightly at his face and then said, “Well, you are, but we all deal with…,” she paused and the mirth fled from her face as quickly as it appeared, “…this differently.” She sighed. “But, school is back on, and I think things could—no, things will—get better. For all of us.”

“You’re right,” Harry said, feeling like he was lying through his teeth.

“And Quidditch is starting!” Ginny exclaimed. “I know you refused to be captain, but I’m letting you know early that tryouts are next week and yes, you do have to try out, even if the spot is yours.”

“I don’t know if I’ll play.”

“What?”

“Chasing a ball? It just feels so…pointless.”

Ginny frowned. “This is the point, Harry. The point is that we did all this to live normal lives. To play sports and cheer for our teams.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, searching around for a way to change the subject. He started walking towards breakfast and Ginny moved with him. “Have you seen Malfoy?” he asked.

Ginny nodded. “I have. It was strange the first time, but—I think seeing him is worth getting used to. He’s a part of this world.”

“Should he be?” Harry muttered.

“Harry, we have to try. Or it’s all everybody angry at each other and our children angry at each other’s children and it never ends. Besides, he’s gotten kind of funny.”

“I don’t know how to explain it, not funny quite, but I was standing next to him for five minutes during the Sorting—I came in late, you know, and so did he, and he had a kind of dry sense of humor. It was rather a big surprise. He made a few comments.”

“So that’s Malfoy—funny and forgiven, then?”

“I don’t know, Harry!” Ginny exclaimed, frustrated. “I haven’t thought about it. I haven’t decided whether or not to be angry at him still, beceause I was for so long, but I want to move on. And if he says something funny, then yes, I’ll laugh, because I need the practice.” She looked at Harry. “And so do you. I don’t think you’ve laughed in ages.”

Harry smirked. “I just have a higher sense of humor than you mortals.”

Ginny stopped walking. “Was that a joke? A joke?”

 “I don’t see you laughing,” Harry said.

“I’m utterly flabbergasted.” Ginny said. And she laughed then, a burst of laughter that at the end turned into the beginning of a sob.

There was a long silence. Ginny sniffed. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she said. “I know I’m supposed to keep laughing to encourage you.”

“You aren’t supposed to do anything, Gin,” Harry said. “We’re doing the best we can.” He sighed. “This is all so fucked up.”

“Don’t go off and turn into permanent sixth year Harry, Mr. Woe-Is-Me-The-World-Is-My-Enemy.”

Harry stiffened at how real that had become, felt the anger that seemed to have settled permanently in his stomach wake up a bit, and he forced it down. “All the girls I’ve ever kissed do seem to cry around me, though,” Harry said, striving for lightness. “Wouldn’t that make you feel woe?”

“All two of them?” Ginny said with a faint chuckle, and then with a valiant effort forced what seemed to be a true smile onto her face. “C’mon let’s get a move on, I smell bacon.”

Harry nodded. “And the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain needs her protein!”

 

The next week passed in a blur of sleepless nights and tired days. Harry went to class in the day, snoozing in history of music and struggling to put the effort into potions and transfiguration. There was still so much Harry had to learn, but he couldn’t find the drive to actually try. And when he did try, it seemed like everything he did was slightly out of control. Sometimes, he did the spell perfectly, and nobody could tell, but he felt as if he’d dodged a bullet, as if the floodgates were about to open.

Ginny was right. He felt warm, almost buzzing with power, but there was no outlet. What he wanted to do was point his wand at a wall and smash it, but instead he spent his afternoons continuing to help with bits and pieces of the reconstruction that was still going on at a much slower pace, moving tiny blocks of stone carefully into place.

He got a letter from Ron, short and succinct as usual. Apparently, the food in Romania was incredible but the Quidditch was awful.

_And the dragons are bloody awesome, Mate. If I knew then what I know now, you would have won the dragon challenge in fourth year without even needing a broom. Merlin, we were stupid then._

_Cheers,_

_Ron_

Harry tucked the note in his trunk to keep along with the past three letters he somehow hadn’t been able to respond to. Still, he was happy Ron was adjusting. Ron needed to get out of England, and Harry couldn’t begrudge him leaving. Ron would be back.

Harry wished Ron was here to be annoyed at Malfoy with him. Malfoy wasn’t stepping a toe out of line—if anything, the opposite. Harry had heard both McGonagall and the new Charms teacher talking about what a help he’d been in class, and how far ahead of the other seventh years he was academically. But Malfoy was being strange.

He kept spending time with children. It was weird, and yet nobody else seemed to notice. First Years of all different houses seemed to love him, and Harry would sometimes see Malfoy outside with a cluster listening to him and giggling. Was he recruiting?

Ron would have been suspicious.

Harry was thinking about Ron as he walked through the corridors after his last class. He purposely took the longest, least populated routes. It gave him more time alone with his thoughts, which he didn’t really want, but more time away from the adoration, which he did.

“Harry,” a Sixth Year Ravenclaw Harry barely knew stopped him as they passed each other, the only two in the hall. “I just wanted to say thank you for your fearless leadership.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry said shortly.

“You brought us all together to fight,” the boy continued.

Harry interjected, “And die.”

“Well, yes, if you are going to put a literal spin on it,” the boy said, his freckled face frowning. He rallied and started again. “But thank you for saving the wizarding world.”

He wanted validation, Harry realized. And he wasn’t going to leave Harry alone. Harry patted him on the back and gave him the warm smile he’d perfected in the mirror. “It was a team effort,” he said, and the Ravenclaw grinned. “I want to thank _you_ for giving this your all. Together we saved the world. And trust me, the sacrifices that were made will be worth it.”

The Ravenclaw toddled off, his face relaxed.

When the boy rounded the corner of the corridor, Harry turned towards the stone wall and silently and furiously punched it. He felt his knuckles split, but he punched it again and again, three times in barely fifteen seconds.

“Impressive,” a voice drawled behind him. “Getting ready to run for Prime Minister?”

Harry stiffened but didn’t turn away from the wall.

“Why stop there? Why not King? No—emperor! A _team efffort_ to make India British again.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, his bloody hands curling back into fists.

“Why bother campaigning at all?” Malfoy asked. “You’re the savior. You could punch them in the face and they’d just say thank you.”

“I saved _you_ ,” Harry said.

“So you’ve said. Savior of the world, you are, isn’t that common knowledge? Or at least, savior of everybody who didn’t die fighting for you.”

Harry turned around with a roar, throwing Malfoy back against the wall behind him. The fury that was always there awoke, rearing its head, overwhelming him until all he knew was that he wanted to hurt Malfoy. His hand flew through the air, punching Malfoy in the face. A violent crack echoed through the hallway.

Malfoy smirked again under the blood gushing from his broken nose. “Thank you,” he said challengingly.

He punched Malfoy again, this time in the stomach, and Malfoy bent over, and then said again, more clearly, “Thank you.”

Harry started to step back, but Malfoy threw a weak punch, barely grazing Harry and Harry threw him back up against the wall and hit him.

“Thank you.”

“Stop saying that,” Harry roared, truly loosing control. He rained his fists down on Malfoy, occasionally batting away a kick or a punch Malfoy threw in.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Malfoy fell to the floor, and some part of Harry that Harry had pushed away reveled in the faint crack that echoed as Harry kicked Malfoy and still Malfoy said it, loud and unable to shut up _Thank you thank you thank youthankyouthankyou_ and Harry wanted to scream Harry wanted him to be quiet he wanted them to just stop to fucking stop saying it and he was on his knees, his fists still swinging, shouting, “Shut up! Shut up! Stop saying that! Stop fucking thanking me! Stop thanking me! Why won’t you all stop thanking me!” and then his fist hit the ground next to Malfoy’s face and Harry realized that he was sobbing and that Malfoy was no longer saying anything at all.

Harry looked at Malfoy, a mess of blood and bruising and swelling and broken bones, smashed against a bloody floor. After a long pause, Malfoy’s swollen eyes opened as far as possible. His gaze seemed completely empty of pain, piercing and gray and calm as he looked at Harry. Harry stared at Malfoy and then at his knuckles, almost delirious.

For the first time since the war, he didn’t feel angry at all. For the first time, inside his head there was only quiet.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ...that was a lot. I don't know, I've had Lorde's Melodrama on repeat and am feeling very melodramatic? I promise it won't be this angry/angsty/fucked up forever. But maybe for a bit. :)


End file.
